


inside leg to outside hand

by pr_scatterbrain



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2010s, Grand Prix dressage au, M/M, Multi, dressage au, equestrian AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16141130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr_scatterbrain/pseuds/pr_scatterbrain
Summary: Nicke is working backwards. He knows exactly where he wants to go, and where he wants to be in two years. London 2012.  The Summer Olympic Games. There isn’t long to go. He knows exactly what he needs to do; the events, the placings and scores he needs to qualify in order to be considered for selection for the Swedish National Equestrian Team.This will be his first Olympics.He needs to focus. He can’t have any distractions.“Sasha will help,” Alex says.Nicke prickles. He doesn’t need help.





	inside leg to outside hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catznetsov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catznetsov/gifts).



> to constantine - at first I really wasn't sure what to write when I read your letter, but you said that you liked detail and anything from cannon fics to au's so... I ended up going very au. However I tried to imbue this with some of the colour and depth of detail that I love about the sport and art of dressage. I doubt this is what you expected, but I very much hope that you enjoy this. 
> 
> For any fellow dressage riders/equestrians, I hope you can enjoy this too. I tried to balance detail with accessibility for non-horse people (I'm not sure how I went). I also have to preface this fic by saying although I tried my best to research this, my personal experiences in the equestrian/dressage world is primarily in Australia. I have horse friends in America, Canada, and in Europe, but I don't have any Swedish or Russian horse friends (though I would love some). So I apologise for any inaccuracies.
> 
> I would also like to add a warning - which may or may not be necessary. I write about the rolkur technique and owning/riding/retraining a horse that has been exposed to it in the past. I personally have a negative opinion of rolkur and I supported efforts to have it banned. And... I’m not sure if this counts as a warning, but for horse people... you will probably recognise same names and be able to guess some of the horses that I based some the horses in this story on. Especially one of them.

   

 

_Anything forced or misunderstood can never be beautiful._

Xenophon.

_No hour of life is wasted that is spent in the saddle._

Winston Churchill.

_...to be in harmony with horses you need two things: to be patient and humble._

Frederic Pignon speaking about what he learnt from Linda Tellington-Jones.

_How can one balance the great service he has rendered the sport against the great damage he has inflicted on it?_

National, World, and Olympic Soviet dressage rider Elena Petuschkova speaking about famed Olympic Soviet dressage rider Sergey Filatov.

 

 

 

_September 2010_

There is a horse.

There always is a horse.

For Nicke - for his generation and maybe for many more - the horse is a ten year old Swedish Warmblood stallion.

In Germany, people call him _Der Wunderhengst._

Ted Leonsis called him the one that got away.

In the dressage arena he is called Arlington.

 

 

At the sixth World Equestrian Games in Lexington, Kentucky, Adam Oates rides Arlington to gold three times over. It’s been two years since they broke Anky van Grunsven's world record dressage score in Grand Prix Freestyle. Since then they have broken their own record more than once. They break it again and with seeming ease they bring home gold in the freestyle, individual and team dressage events.

History, as one announcer put it, is made.

 

 

(History is shifting sand.)

  

 

Within the same month Nicke sells his two Grand Prix dressage horses.

Or his parents do. Not that they own them either.

One goes to Germany, the other to the Netherlands.

The sales are reported on dressage-news.com when the FEI database formally processed and updated their passports. It’s a slow news day. The Bäckström’s breed and sell horses. They are an old family run stable with a good reputation for producing quality over quantity, but nothing particular is made of the sales until the end of the month when the news breaks -

The unthinkable has happened.

Arlington has been sold.

  

 

(In the wake of the news, in the wake of rumours that follow, a series of events take place. There is a warm up ring in Canada and there is a horse that has a hitch in their stride and inhales in a rush when Sasha asks for an upward transition. That isn’t a story, not this one. But it isn’t one that Sasha forgets.

He is fired within the hour.

It’s gossip more than something anyone remembers.)

  

 

(Sasha remembers. The horse was called El-Den.

Sasha didn’t know what was wrong. But. He knew.)

  

 

(Show names, stable names, ids, studbook entries and FEI passports.

It is news when Arlington’s change.

It isn’t when El-Den’s does.)

  

 

(A few hundred grand gone. An insurance claim.

A few million exchanged in a sale.

Everything has a price.)

 

 

_October 2010_

 

There is something at Nickes throat. Something in his chest. He doesn’t quite relax until Arlington arrives.

It is all organised ahead of time. All organised by others. But he wanted to be there. He is there to hear the clatter of hooves as Arlington is unloaded.

Nicke has seen him before. He saw him recently at the WEG last month. Everyone did. Everyone had been waiting to see what he and Oates would do. They had been waiting and watching from the edges of their seats for the last two years. It was then, at Hickstead, London, that Anky van Grunsven's world record score in Grand Prix Freestyle was first broken. Since then Oates and Arlington broke their own record more than once. For the first time ever, there was talk of a perfect score no longer being hypothetical but within reach. There was a lot of talk.

There is always talk in the dressage world. Nicke knows that better than most. He is a Bäckström in Sweden. He grew up surrounded by it.

But Arlington -

In the arena, a horse can be one thing. In the flesh, they can be another.

There is so much folklore and mythology surrounding him. It’s easy to forget that Arlington was born here. Not in America. Not at the Bäckström stud in Valbo either, but in Åre, Sweden. His talent was visible early. At the World Breeding Championships for Young Horses he placed in the top four when he was five years old. Even then his paces were remarkable and his natural ability outshone the majority of his competition. Yet he was easily distracted and prone to tension in transitions.

Back then it was an American agent for an American buyer who noticed Arlington - and bought him for Adam Oates. At the time it was considered a sign of Arlington’s worth. He was one of a handful of horses that non-Europeans buyers purchased from the championship. Certainly he was a talented horse, yes, but everyone knew the best horses stayed in Europe.

Two years later he was rewriting records.

That was the punchline that Nicke became used to hearing while he was in Washington. Often said by Oates himself. Nicke wasn’t much good at laughing at jokes then.

Here, now, in the sunlight, Arlington’s black coat shimmers and shines with good health. He holds himself well, looking his height though there are scuff marks on his padded travelling boots and on his hooves. There is something liquid to how he moves. The freedom in his shoulders giving him a walk that stretches a moment out. It would be nothing for him to slip upward into a trot; Nicke can see it. A shift of weight. An exhaled breath. Easy. He can feel it as Arlington takes in his new surroundings.

There are no photographers here for this moment, so it is Nicke’s father, Anders, who steps forward to take the lead rope. His hands sure where Nicke’s are fists by his sides.

Nicke wants to step forward, but - he is still. There is always value in that around horses. Nicke learnt that when he was young. It didn’t stick so much then, but he knows it now and sees the value in it as Arlington’s head swings around. The whites in his eyes are showing. He blows out a huff of air - not quite a sound but he is heard all the same.

“Home,” Anders tells him.

It is.

His hand touches Arlington’s neck. One of Arlington’s ears flick; recognition. For a moment his focus centers and he is with Anders. Just for a moment.

 

 

No one seriously thought that Arlington would ever return to Sweden.

But everything has a price, even a world champion dressage horse.

  

 

(On the other side of the world Sasha is in the warm up arena and he feels it happen again.

The hitch in the stride.

The hesitation.

The way El-Den’s inhales in a rush on an upward transition, like he can’t get enough.

And Sasha knows.

He doesn’t know what he knows. But. He knows. )

  

 

(Within the same hour he is fired.

Within the same hour, Alex hears rumours. It doesn’t take him long to get to the truth. Not even when Sasha won’t answer his calls. )

(A name, a ID, a bit of paperwork for a FEI passport. Every horse has one.

Arlington makes the news when his changes.  

El-Den doesn’t.)

 

  

_November 2010_

 

There is the way things are done with horses. It isn’t the way things are done with Arlington. If there is any significant overlap, Nicke has yet to witness it. He knew that going into this. He knew it before. But this -

This will make his sixth ride of Arlington, Nicke thinks as he swings his body up and into the saddle in one seamless movement.

As he settles into the saddle, his mother’s hand is on his right ankle, helping him find the stirrup iron. It is a brief touch, barely felt. Nicke could be eight in that moment. A polishing cloth is all it takes to remove her finger prints.

“There,” Carin says.

Nicke exhales.

Arlington doesn’t.

Nicke keeps breathing. He doesn’t wait. He keeps breathing. Eventually Arlington will join him.

Arlington is used to this. The noise. The people. He stands for the last touches by the grooms, by Andres, who runs his eyes over them. A few soft words are shared between him and Catrin. Nicke doesn’t listen. If he needs to know anything, they will get his attention and tell him.

Nicke’s first ride was after the WEG. Amidst all the secrecy there was a try out a - for Nicke with Arlington rather than for Arlington for Nicke. It’s still surreal with Ted and his people organise a formal event to present Nicke and Arlington as a pair to the public. Initially it was going to take place at the Bäckström stables. Ted liked the history and his people liked the pale wooden interior of the indoor arena. However it quickly became apparent that there would not be enough space there to accommodate the media.

They end up at the Ridskolan Strömsholm, one of the three national equestrian centres in Sweden.

Ted’s people organise it.

He is there, in a burst of tanned skin and a flash of white teeth. His hand claps a pat on Arlington's shoulder.

Arlington twitches.  

His coat gleams blue black. Nicke is sweating in his tails, also black. And new. (New sponsors).

“You’re going to do great,” Ted tells Nicke, looking up at him.

Nicke half expects a clap of a pat on his leg. He is an investment as much as Arlington.

They are just outside of one of the indoor arenas. The stands are full. There is a hum that vibrates through the walls. There is no quiet except what little Nicke can find inside himself.

Arlington chews on his metal bit. The sound is unpleasant.

There is something vaguely surreal about the entire thing. The sense of it rises inside Nicke. Not even in America was there something like this.

Nicke has ridden countless horses.This is new.

The presentation is a blur.

He rides as well as anyone could expect and before he even enters the arena he knows it’s not nearly good enough.

There is a photo session afterwards. Then an interview. Ted speaks for most of it. Nicke turns to listen. He tries to find the right words to say when directly asked a question. His hands and his knees are folded neatly. His breeches are new. Another quick change between dismounting and taking a seat in front of the media. All the details are thought of. Someone surely is unpicking the plaits in Arlington’s mane as they speak and washing him down.

People ask about Adam.

Ted answers that.

Nicke nods as if in agreement.

He speaks in English, mostly. The words take shape inside his mouth without smooth transitions. He isn’t known for being particularly interesting. That was Alex.

  

 

(No one asks about Alex.

It’s a first.)

  

 

(Almost everyone asks about Adam Oates.)

  

 

There is noise in the wake of it all. Words and camera clicks and Arlington -

That is the gloss.

The reality is the drive back to the stable and the adrenaline draining from Nicke’s body with each mile. On the dashboard, the camera in the truck shows Arlington eating. His body sways with the undulations of the road. When they stop for petrol, Nicke goes to check on him.

Nicke is used to travel. He and Kristoffer both grew up in the back of his parents truck, watching them compete across Europe. Somewhere in Sweden one week, somewhere in Denmark the next. Germany, England, anywhere, everywhere.

He remembers the feeling of sitting at petrol stations and the way his parents horses would exhale against his hands when he’d check on them. Arlington’s muzzle is velvet soft, but only his whiskers touch him. They are still growing out. They prickle against the back of Nicke’s hand.

“Almost home, Arli,” he says quietly.

There is no one to overhear, but he keeps his voice quiet; just for Arlington.

They have been on the road for hours. There are hours to go. But they are almost home.

Breathing in the sweet scent of horse and hay, Nicke thinks of that and of the months they will stay there to train. Time is precious, but they have a little of it before they will begin their campaign. They will need it, but Nicke doesn’t want to think about that. Not now, not while he is with Arlington.

When they arrive home, Arlington holds his breath as he is unloaded from the trailer and hesitations when he is returned to the field.

It’s a small thing, but Nicke notices.

This is new to him.

He was in box stalls for most of his time in Germany with Adam. In America it was much the same. As his value increased, his turn out time decreased. The risk of a paddock accident was considered too real the closer and closer he got to the impossible score of 100. Now, here, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now. It shows.

There was a debate amongst the stable management of whom to put with Arlington. None of their horses are turned out alone - no matter how much or little they are worth on paper. Two geldings were chosen. Kristoffer’s horses. They mostly ignore him. For all of Arlington’s training, his sensibilities in the field are lacking. He moves through space like he isn’t sure of it. To fast, to much. No manners. He’s started grazing though. That came through study, not intuitively.

Arlington is a joint investment Ted and the Bäckström’s have made, but he is a horse too.

This is his home.

When Nicke goes to see him one last time before turning in for the night, he  is out of his white breeches, and in paddock boots that are muddy. There is black under his nails. He isn’t sure where it came from. It must be from Arlington’s makeup, but Nicke can’t remember touching him, not even when he dismounted. Someone else washed Arlington down while Nicke was being interviewed. He picks at his nails by the gate.

He is home too. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that. He was only gone a handful of years. But still.

  

 

This is the beginning.

This is the start.

  

 

Alex calls towards the end of autumn, maybe a week after the first round of official press about Arlington but he isn’t calling about that.

“I need a favour,” he says, saying those words rather than implying.

Alexander Semin.

That’s a name Nicke hasn’t heard in a while.

The last Nicke heard he was in America, somewhere. Making money. Or getting in debt. Riding a variety of well bred and badly trained horses.

“Canada,” Alex corrects, but in past tense.

“Same thing,” Nicke says.

Alex pauses. Nicke waits him out. He refuses to take offence. Nicke knows Alex. They aren’t strangers to each other.

Apparently Sasha was fired. Or let go. But Alex doesn’t offer that correction, instead he swears about Michel fucking Therrien and the Molson family. Apparently they fired Sasha while on the road, in the middle of a comp, after Sasha had retired a horse from competition without their permission. There was something off in the warm up arena -

“Undiagnosed heart murmur,” Alex says.

Nicke isn’t sure how Alex knows the details. It isn’t like Sasha to share them.

Alex is in Russia. He is home, the star rider at his mother’s stable. Technically Nicke is the star rider in his family’s stable too. They both have very high expectations on their shoulders. They are used to that. They had to get used to that. But Alex was a quicker learner than Nicke. In Washington he made it all look easy; both inside and out of the dressage arena.

Currently rather than riding Ted’s horses, Alex is riding a homebred Trakehner mare that is a descendant of his mother’s Olympic Gold medal winning dressage horse.

“Ted likes her,” Alex says.

That could mean anything. Most probably that Ted has bought a large share in the mare.

Alex wouldn’t deny it if asked, but Nicke doesn’t ask. He isn’t _Horse and Hound_ , but then, they don’t particularly care for non-British riders.

(Ted bought Arlington outright. Most of him, anyway. It was pocket change to him. Somewhat less so for Nicke’s parents. That did make _Horse and Hound_. It made everywhere.)

“Looking for a sweep?” Nicke asks instead.

“First and second?” Alex says. “Sounds nice.”

It does. Depending on the order. It’s always the details that matter inside the dressage arena. Outside too, sometimes.

Alex knows that better than most. Tatyana Ovechkina has two gold medals. At Los Angeles, she was robbed of her third. So was Team Russia. So much for the Friendship Games. She retired after that, but came back a decade later (all it takes is the right horse). In that time she’s managed bronze at the first WEG and a top ten finish at the Atlanta Games, but she’s still after another gold. For her or for Alex.

The time the right horse is a mare she bred for Alex.

It’s a pretty thing. Old fashioned. Hot. Stubborn. But Alex likes hot horses that are quick to react and challenging to ride. They make him work and there is nothing Alex likes more than a challenge and the chase. He’s after gold. So is Nicke. So is everyone else.

Nicke is working backwards.

He knows exactly where he wants to go, and where he wants to be in two years. London 2012. There isn’t long to go. Not nearly. He knows exactly what he needs to do; the events, the placings and scores he needs to qualify in order to be considered for selection for the Swedish National Team.

This will be his first Olympics.

(It will be Arlington’s second).

He needs to focus. He can’t have any distractions.

“Sasha will help,” Alex says.

Nicke prickles. He doesn’t need help.

“Let him help you. You mother has spare horses.”

It’s mean and telling. Alex is smarter than he looks. There is an exhaled breath. Alex knows.

Or maybe Nicke just does. And he relents. Soft hands and the inches Alex takes from him.

One day Nicke will call on some of the favours Alex owes him.

“I’ll be there,” Alex says.

Nicke wants to laugh. Wants to snarl.

He does neither.

He is dressed in another pair of breeches from his new sponsors and there is black under his nails. His day was over before Alex called.

“You’ll have a long way to come,” Nicke says.

It feels like it could be a joke. Alex doesn’t laugh. He should have. But he was never quite as kind as he believed himself to be.

  

 

Soft hands, soft heart.

Soft hands, soft heart.

Alex always used to say that back in Washington.

  

 

(Alex is in Russia now.)

 

  

_December 2010_

 

Sasha travels to Sweden on the undercurrent. As far as timing goes it isn’t great. It’s a few weeks after the FEI World Equestrian Games and normally this is when he would have breathing room. Or at least some space from Alex while he was licking his wounds. Last time space was hard to come by. At best it was the other side of an arena in Ted’s barn. This time Sasha flies to Valbo alone. He travels light. His deal with Devoucoux fell through right around the time his contract with the Molson family in Montreal did. The only part of his kit Devoucoux didn’t reclaim was his helmet and boots. There isn’t much more than that in his carry on.

Maybe it’s ironic. Maybe it’s a fitting end for his time in the West. He didn’t come to Washington with much more than this.

There isn’t anyone waiting for him at the baggage collection. Alex doesn’t answer when Sasha tries to call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

Sasha’s phone is running low on battery. While waiting for his bag, the percentage gets lower and lower as he tries to backtrack through his emails for the Bäckström stable’s after hours contact number. It’s in single digits by the time he spots his scuffed bag on the baggage carousel.

He shouldn’t have called Alex. It was stupid to try. Another avoidance tactic. Stupid.

Nicke’s contact details are saved in Sasha’s phone. Still. They are probably outdated now. He ends up on goggle. The Bäckström’s website doesn’t offer a cyrillic version, but he makes do with the English one. The photographs are glossy; both the horses in them and of the stables. The contact page lists a number that is answered when Sasha calls it.

There are apologies and explanations exchanged. Sasha isn’t sure what he offers, but the promised lift turns up while Sasha’s is yawning in the arrival lounge. His name is Andre and he looks young - he looks a working student, Sasha thinks. Maybe a groom, or something in between. Or even something different.  Sasha’s been a groom and a working student, but in Russia and America. Sweden could be different. It probably is. Sasha doesn’t know how the Bäckström’s run their stables.

There is softness in Andre’s face and a hole in one of his gloves. He knows Sasha on sight.

On the drive he talks. Apparently they are going to be sharing a cottage together.

“And with Djoos” he adds.

Djoos hogs the hot water, Andre warns.

It isn’t anything new. There is always someone who does.

At Sasha’s last stable, it was Chucky. Though Sasha couldn’t blame him. The last Sasha heard from him, he was somewhere in America. Probably better for him than somewhere in Canada. Definitely better than somewhere Russia.

  

 

The main language spoken at the Bäckström stable is English.

“Lucky for you,” Andre grins.

Sasha isn’t sure he’d call it lucky. Or himself.

  

 

There is no introduction. Not any formal one.

Sasha makes do.

No stable is alike, but Sasha knows horses. They have a rhythm all of their own.

The horses the Bäckström’s breed are leggy, fashionable warmbloods bred for dressage. Sasha is schooling some of them before the end of the day. They hold themselves with a sense of ease and move with natural cadance and lightness. Though more finely bred than Sasha prefers, they are of a height that makes him look in proportion when he sees his reflection in the mirrors at the end of the arena.  

They are all handed off to Sasha already warmed up by junior riders.

Sasha’s time - his skill - is spent training and developing them.

It’s all about rhythm and pacing.

Timing is everything, but Sasha isn’t sure if he’s gotten this right.

The offer of role at the Bäckström stables came in the wake of Arlington’ sale. In his initial call, Alex said a lot of crap about how they needed his help with the stallion. Sasha hadn’t believed a word of it. When Michael Nylander, the stable manager, called, he explained that with their attention focused on Arlington, Sasha was told his position was more or less to pick up the stack that Nicke and his brother Kristoffer have left. He describe the role in a much nicer way, but still.

In the indoor arena, under the lights, Sasha lets himself lose track of time.

Though the weather has eased enough for the junior riders to warm up horses outside, the serious schooling takes place indoors. The indoor arena is a warm structure built from pale, bleached wood with large windows. The mirrors on the sides have small tarnished patches. The arena is old the way everything is on the Bäckström property. According to the historical markers on their property, they have been here for six generations. But the footing under the hooves of Sasha’s mount is new. It’s soft, light, and shipped in. It is a far cry from the grass arenas he learnt to ride in. But this is where Nicke learnt.

It’s been a handful of years since they last rode together at the same stable in Washington D.C. Back then it was all imported horses that Ted’s European buyers found for him. Now Nicke is riding the best dressage horse the world has ever seen and Sasha is riding ones that the Bäckström’s bred. Mostly ones for sale. Some were bred by the Bäckström family. Many were accumulated by them. Some belonged to Nicke’s, others were Kristoffer’s. Some have talent. Some have potential. They are two different things.

There is no word of Arlington.

The Bäckström’s are one of the few family’s with the the ability to enter into such a lucrative syndicate. As a kid in America, Sasha knew that Nicke came from money. But the reality is... it is something, Sasha thinks. Or tries not to think.

It’s easy for Sasha to lose himself in riding.

He works too slowly. He is behind before lunch. His wrists ache before then.

Soft hands, soft heart; Sergei said that, back when Sasha was a junior.

Sasha still has the same hands. Still has the same heart too.

His head, his heart, his hands. His lower leg, his seat, his core. He inhales as he places his foot in the stirrup and exhales as he swings his body over to mount the next horse.

There is always a next horse.

There is Bols, a seventeen hand chestnut who has good natural straightness in his movement, but is young. There is Echo, a sooty coloured bay, who is the half brother of Teresina and Ingo. Like Echo, they, both tend to lose their balance if Sasha doesn’t take care. His aids have to be precise, and timed exactly. Increased impulsion helps with Ingo, but Teresina has a tendency to rush when she is unsure. Both were Kristoffer’s. For the time being, Sasha job involves keeping them in work. They are for sale. There are half a dozen more green horses that Sasha works with, and dozen more that he - some for sale, some he tunes up, some Michael implies that Sasha might end up taking out.

Not counting the few weeks he was in Miami working at a show jumping barn, it’s been almost half a year since he last attended a competition.

He needs new patrons.

Eric calls. Alex too. Sergei. Sasha’s agent. Sasha loses track.

He answers some calls, and lets others go to his voicemail. He blames the different time zones. He doesn’t return as many missed calls as he should. He blames time zones for that. It makes Alex laugh. The sound of his laughter… it’s easy to talk to Alex. Easier than it should be, even now. Even after everything.

  

 

(It’s easy to forget with Alex.)

  

 

The days are short. They nights are long. Sasha wakes in the dark, works in it.

He boards on the property in one of the old grooms cottages. It’s like being a junior rider again. Maybe. He shares the small space with three Swedes. Andre and Djoo are teenagers. Marcus Johansson isn’t, but only just; he celebrating his birthday two months previously. Between the four of them, they can manage half a conversation in English. They’d probably manage a full one without Sasha.

“Of course I knew you on sight,” Andre confesses when they are making dinner together.

He is - sweet, Sasha thinks. Sweet in a way Sasha doesn’t much remember being when he was Andre’s age.

(It was harder to be sweet in Sasha’s hometown.)

The youngest of all of them, Andre, is a working student. He’s here working during his school break. He has good hands, Sasha thinks. For a teenager. The highlight of his week are the private lessons he has with Kristoffer. Andre brought his own horse; a leggy seven year old warmblood tb cross. A homebred mare. Sasha taught his last lesson as Kristoffer was away conducting a weeklong clinic in London. He took Andre’s stirrups off his saddle. Two days later, Andre is still looking stiff.

They talk horses over dinner.

It is Andre that brings up Arlington.

Sasha -

Arlington arrived before he did.

When the indoor arena is closed down for Nicke’s private training sessions with him, Sasha can’t help but glance at the closed sliding doors. He isn’t alone.

“Did you ever see him compete?” Andre asks.

He is genuinely curious.

Sasha did.

Sasha was there the day he and Oates broken the record for the highest ever dressage score. He was there when they broke it again. Shattering it with a score of over 90.

It was… no one would forget that moment.

“What was it like?” Djoo asks.

Sasha shrugs.

It isn’t an answer. But. It isn’t a lie.

  

 

(Horses don’t lie. They never lie).

  

 

There hasn’t been enough time for Sasha to learn every name and face at the Bäckström stables, but he sees Nicke sometimes.

It’s a stable. Not a small one, but still. They see each other.

They school horses in the same arenas, at the same time. They walk the same stable isles, work with the same team of support staff.

They see each other.

The shine of the sun on Nicke’s hair, the glint in his eyes when he speaking intently, the line of his body. Sasha inhales and exhales. In the middle of the arena, he begins to collects Teresina. She is still young, so he doesn’t ask for more than she can give.. Beneath him, he feels her shift her weight. Her ears flick; he glances at the mirror alongside them.

For a moment he catches Nicke’s eye observing them.

Only for a moment, though.

Nicke’s glaze darts away. His jaw clenches.

He isn’t with Arlington. Arlington - Arli, as everyone calls him - is schooled privately. He is Nicke’s main focus, but not his sole one. Today he is riding a bay mare. It’s been a few years but he remembers Nicke in Washington and the way he would ride. The precision, the focus, the drive is the same. His eyes too. Not that he looks at Sasha.

Sasha doesn’t have the luxury of naivety. He knows he isn’t in Sweden on merit, he is here because of Alex.

Beneath him, he feels Teresina seek contact, willingly offering contact with the metal bit.

“Good girl,” he tells her.

  

 

(Arlington is kept in the same paddock as Bols and Echo.

Sasha sees him watching when Sasha goes to collect the two geldings in the morning.)

 

 

_January 2011_

 

Across the other side of the world, Alex kicks off the new year in Florida, scoring a personal best in the Grand Prix Special, and making the top five in the Freestyle. From Nicke apartment in the converted barn, he checks the results and reads Alex’s post ride interview.

Alex was allocated a wildcard to the CDI-W. He entered as an underdog. He left as the new face of the Russian dressage revival.

The interview is accompanied by five large glossy photographs. The sky, the ocean, and Alex, looking resplendent and so very Russian. Blue on blue on the blue of his eyes. His mare, Polyn’s, crystal browband glitters in the West Palm Beach sunshine. The gold buttons on Alex’s jacket gleam. They match the gold of his stirrups. That is noted in the article. Americans like their bling. Europeans don’t so much.

Nicke looks at all of the photos one at a time. Inside his chest, he feels something twist.

He swallows, his throat dry.

Then the next morning, he catches Sasha between rides. His face is flushed and he is smiling softly as he hands one of the green young horses over to Djoo and takes the reins of Ingo.

“Tinne Vilhelmson Silfvén won the GP in Florida.”

Sasha’s expression flickers for a moment; confusion maybe. Then it settles into something opaque.

Alex came seventh. But Nicke doesn’t say that.

Tinne Vilhelmson Silfvén is Nicke’s peer, an old family friend, and one of his top rivals for the Swedish Olympic team. Nicklas Lidström doesn’t count. Everyone knows that he and his Danish Warmblood, Perfectus, are a sure bet for London 2012. The Swedish Equestrian Federation tend to be conservative, but they have always loved him. London will make his fifth games, and if Tinne gets her way, her sixth.

“What score?” Sasha asks, throwing Nicke off.

Nicke hadn’t really looked at her score, but he remembers nevertheless.  

“77.28”

Sasha nods.

Ingo steps into his space. Impatient.

“I have to -” Sasha begins to say.

Nicke nods. “Yeah.”

It is muscle memory to hold the offside stirrup leather as Sasha mounts from the mounting block on the near side. The swing of Sasha’s body is graceful. He exhales as he settles in the saddle and Nicke does too as he holds the stirrup and helps Sasha find it. That too is muscle memory. A courtesy that is offered freely.

“Your stirrups are too long,” he says.

They always were, but Nicke mostly tells Sasha that just to have something to fill the space between them.  

“Long legs,” Sasha says like it is an answer.

He does have long legs and he does like to ride with longer stirrups than most. But still.

Nicke looks up at him. The blue of Sasha’s eyes is bright. He almost looks amused.

  

 

(Later Nicke isn’t sure what he feels or what he wanted from that conversation only he thinks he got something else entirely.)

  

 

(Two weeks later Alex and Polyn are making waves in Amsterdam.)

 

 

_February 2011_

 

For all that Nicke is working backwards, the beginning is the same as it always was. When he was a child, the heart of it all was the ponies he grew up riding. Now it is Arli, but Arli is not his. On paper he is. But that is on paper, in a legal contract. In the stable - in the arena, Arli is not yet his and he is not yet Arli’s. He overflows with natural ability. Nicke is only learning him, yet Arli offers his paces, movements, everything with such effortless ease. Yet for all his brilliance, when Nicke rides him, Arli never feels quite there with him.

“It will come,” Anders says.

It usually does.

They are working on improving Arli’s hind quarters. In their hour long sessions they work at different gates from walk, trot to canter; focussing on transitions, engaging and activating his hind quarters. It isn’t new to Arli, but the way Nicke rides is. There are moments where Nicke’s instincts tell him to push. But he can’t trust them. Not like he did before.

His father works with them; articulating the faults and offering corrections.

Nicke tries to listen. He has to work at that. There is a back and forth sometimes. There is history too; unsaid but understood.  

An hour passes quickly.

Nicke doesn’t feel finished by the end of it, but his father is. He leaves Nicke to cool down Arli with the reminder that others need to use the arena. It is only the beginning of the day.

The reins slide trough Nicke’s fingers. Arli doesn’t take them, but he could.

Letting him trot on a loose rein, Nicke inhales and exhales slowly. With a shift shift of his weight in the saddle, from one seat bone to another, Nicke asks Arli for fluid serpentines and figure eights. Underneath him, he feels Alri’s trot steps alter ever so slightly as bends around Nicke’s inside seat bone and leg.

It takes time before he attempts to stretch the frame of his body long and low. It comes slowly.

At walk on a long rein, Arli doesn’t quite lower the poll of his head lower than his withers, but in the mirrors Nicke catches Arli opening the angle of his throat latch so his muzzle tilts ever so slightly forward. If he concentrates, he can feel Arli breathing. Nicke slows his own and keeps it steady as he asks for a change of direction. As he does, he feels Arli fall on the forehand.

It’s an amateur mistake that could have been avoided if Nicke had kept Arli’s hind quarters engaged. No one is there to see it, but Nicke feels annoyed at himself. Practically every trainer he has ever had have emphasised the need to maintain a consistent and fluid rhythm.

Arli regains his balance, but there is now tension in him. Nicke - Nicke asks again for a free walk. He encourages Arli stretch out the muscles in his topline.

Nicke gets five, maybe ten minutes but not longer.

On the outside of the arena, waiting by the sliding doors, Andre is seated upon one of the schools master. The gelding is a neat horse, with kind eyes. A few years back the gelding was Nicke’s mother’s competition horse. In the intervening years he has aged out of competitiveness but he’s perfect for teaching some of the bigger movements to a young riders like Andre. If Andres is riding Gal, then it must be time for his bi-weekly lesson.

A lesson that Nicke is clearly delaying.

Before Nicke can apologise, Kristoffer is sending Andre in to the arena to warm up Gal.

Arli’s ears twitch and his neck stiffens as his raises his head to track Gal.

Nicke has to make himself exhale slowly.

Since the start of the new year Ted has been pushing to invite a Eurohorse journalist to observe one of Nicke and Arli’s training sessions. Probably Isabelle Khurshudyan. He liked the feature she wrote about the presentation.

“Take Arli for a hack,” Kristoffer suggests.

It’s the same suggestion he’s been making for the past few weeks.

A good hack is Kristoffer’s solution to most problems. He’d live out in the forest if he could.

Kristoffer smiles when Nicke says as much. Nicke wants to roll his eyes but instead he gathers his reins.

A hack. Right.

Kristoffer gathers the quarter sheet and throws it over Arli’s back to cover his hind quarters and keep his muscles from cramping in the chill. It’s as good as a formal dismissal.

  

 

(Kristoffer isn’t riding. Not at the moment.

“Not anymore,” he says, like he means it.

Nicke doesn’t believe him.)

  

 

Outside the indoor arena, Nicke glances towards the forest that is adjoined to the east side of the property. He knows every bridleway like the back of his hand. As a child he and Kristoffer would spend hours out their with their ponies and later, their horses. In the distance he sees half a dozen horses being warmed up. The sun catches the reflective strips on the corner of each of their quarter sheets, making them almost glow in the dawn light.  

At the front, keeping the pace steady is Sasha.

He’s riding Ingo, and the mare is covering ground and extending her trot beautifully.

Kristoffer is sending them to the Concours de Dressage International five star (CDI*5) in Göteborg at the end of the month. It looks like Djoo might be ready for it too. In the office Michael has been double checking their paperwork. Djoo is new to their program, but that is easy to work with. Sasha’s registration with the FEI is more complicated. The Molson’s in Montreal promised to send the appropriate documentation relating to Sasha’s time with them, but as of yet it has not appeared.

Asking Arli for a brisk and forward walk, Nicke decides to make for the closest outdoor arena. The sand base will probably still be draining from the rain earlier in the week, but it will be fine for cooling Arli down.

As well as inviting press to Nicke’s training sessions, Ted is pushing for Nicke to take Arli out.

There are World qualifiers coming up. Ted’s people are eyeing various ones with differing amounts of interest. Nicke is sure there is a list ranking them floating around various officers. Probably Hickstead is at the top. To return to the place where Oates and Totilas first broke Anky van Grunsven's world record score in Grand Prix Dressage Freestyle has a neat symmetry to it that Americans like.  

Nicke’s never trusted symmetry outside of the dressage arena.

Out by the far field, Sasha and the riders he is leading turn onto the main driveway. The sound of hooves hitting the brickwork carries up the hill and works as an advanced warning. Nicke has enough time to dismount and lead Arli to be untacked before they reach the yard.

He isn’t avoiding Sasha.

He doesn’t see the point of it. Nicke isn’t interested going out of his way. He did that already when he spoke to his family about offering Sasha his position at their stable. Besides. Sasha doesn’t need any hand holding.

Sasha didn’t seem to need much.

  

 

The next time Nicke sees Sasha he wants to ignore him. He probably should. Instead he opens his mouth.

“This is a no smoking stable,” Nicke says, when he sees Sasha waiting outside of Michael’s office.

His sweaty hair is stuck to his skull, his helmet is in his hands and a red impression of it mars Sasha’s forehead.

At the sound of his voice, Sasha looks up at him. It takes him a beat to respond.

“Yes,” he says like he is agreeing with Nicke.

Sasha is a liar, everyone knows that.

  

 

Usually Eric calls in the evening while Sasha is getting changed out of his yard clothes and cleaned up before he sits down to eat. Sasha answers for no other reason than he likes the sound of Eric’s voice.

It’s easy to talk to him. It always has been.

Eric just has a way about him. Sponsors come to him like bees to honey. His current ones imported his last two mounts, including a very nice Hanoverian gelding that they renamed Dundon Capital Hartford - otherwise simply known as ‘Whale’ in the stable. Partly because of his colouring, and partly because of his good bone. When Sasha asks after him, he and Eric end up problem solving some of the relaxation issues he’s been having. Lately at the counter canter, especially on the right lead, Eric has felt some stiffness. The usual body workers have looked at Whale, but he still isn’t swinging freely through his back. The stiffness is has been having a ripple effect; making him less willing to lean down into contact with the bit when Eric asks.

Whale was always one of Sasha’s favourites. Willing and patient, he enjoyed his work and loved Eric. Though most horses did.

“And how is _der wunderhengst_?”

Sasha doesn’t have an answer for that or for when Eric asks after Nicke.

“It’s good,” he can say, when Eric asks if he likes the Bäckström stable.

It is.

The stable is run well. The horses are healthy, well bred, and well trained. It isn’t like Carolina, where Sasha found Eric - found friendship and, for a time, a home. But what Sasha is asked to do, what is expected; it is measured. The stable is a business and the Bäckström have more than their share of ribbons, medals and cups but the horses are allowed to be horses. He likes that.

The work - it is good, too, for the most part.

Sasha particularly likes the early mornings. He hates getting up for them, but he likes the calmness. He likes running his hands over Bols legs feeling for any unusual warmth or swelling, and standing still when Echo sniffs at him delicately. First with one nostril, then with the other.

Arlington -

This morning, at the sound of Sasha’s voice, Arli had flicks his ears.

Sasha remembers him.

This is different.

Outside of the arena, everything is different.

In the field he keeps a distance. So does Sasha.

  

 

(Sasha doesn’t blame Arlington for keeping his distance.)

 

 

_March-May 2011_

 

It’s been almost six months since Arlington arrived. Winter has given way to spring, and around Nicke the calender of FEI equestrian is coming to life. Reports find their way to the stable; of Tinne, of Nicklas, of Patrik Kittel, the Sedin twins and Nina Hofmann Kûppers. She’s only just cracked the top seventy of the FEI rankings, but still.

The interview with Isabelle Khurshudyan for _Dressage-News_ goes ahead.

After intense negotiation,Ted and Nicke’s parents agree to give her unlimited access to one of Nicke’s training sessions with Arli and allow a photographer to accompany her. Equally, no restrictions or even the right to preview any images before being posted online was required. It is a gamble, but Isabelle is a relatively known quantity.

“Why are you doing this?” Marcus asks when he finds out.

He isn’t the only one surprised by the level of access that has been approved.

“Transparency,” he says.

Given Arli is a horse, a fortnight before the interview is meant to take place, he is put out of action by an abscess in his offside hind hoof. It’s caught early and treated under veterinary supervision. Peter Andersson and Rolf Edberg both consult, and coordinate care between them. Best laid plans...

Upon receiving the update, Ted has to be talked out of flying over to see him.

Alri’s injury and talking Ted down are delays Nicke doesn’t need. While London 2012 is the goal, the selection announcement for the Swedish team for the European Championships is nearing. As focused as Nicke is, he can’t help but want be there in Rotterdam in August with Arli.

Isabelle asks about that.

Anders answers.

It’s a good answer. Diplomatic. Nicke nods in agreement.  

It is better and worse when Nicke is riding Alri out in one of the expansive grass arenas. The 50 x 80 metre arena used to be a show jumping field back in Nicke’s grandparent’s day. Out here, Alri can see other horses. The sight of them no longer is as notable as it was when he arrived, but his ears flick. Nicke is far enough away from Isabelle that he could say something to Arli. He would if there wasn’t a photographer tracking them.

There was an intercontinental debate about how to present Arli. Calle Johansson, one of the senior Bäckström grooms, who had been assigned to Alri had plaited him up. Then unplaited him. Test photographs were taken and spent to Washington for Ted’s consideration. Different tack was discussed. Different outfits for Nicke. Everything was chosen with care.  

Nicke isn’t particularly photogenic, but Arli is.

He always knows when he has an audience. Isabelle and her photographer as a far smaller crowd than the one at the WEG in Lexington that had given him a standing ovation, but Nicke feels him performing to them. Everything is just a little bit brighter, a little bolder, a little bit more elevated for them. Light and responsive to everything Nicke asks from him, Alri is brilliant.

From the very beginning, Arli was brilliant.

Everyone knows that.

It isn’t about Arli. Everyone knows what he can do. If they succeed that is one thing. But if they fail, it will be Nicke’s fault. No one had said that outright, but Nicke knows.

It’s been months and Nicke is still rides Arli privately. He has overheards some of the grooms assigned to Arli talk about how he settling into the new routine, into Nicke’s style. Djoo is one of the grooms. Usually it’s him quietly sneaking Arli carrots while the others talk.

The grooms talk because everyone does in a stable. Nicke knows this better than most. It’s worse than high school. For the most part they talk just amongst themselves and not to anyone in the media. He isn’t sure if that will change or stay the same once he and Arlington go out to compete.

“You can’t school forever,” Alex always says.

Alex is in Russia, Nicke makes himself remember.

It’s a waste, Nicke thinks.

Alex doesn’t need to ride in Russia to ride for Russia. Russia didn’t come close to medelling at the last WEG.

  

 

(Isabelle doesn’t ask about Alex or Polyn.

Nicke isn’t sure whether to feel surprised by that or not).

  

 

The article runs before the end of the week.

There are seven photographs. One is a close up of the hoof Arli had the abscesses in. The photographer must have took the image with their long lense camera while Arli was moving. It was timed precisely to capture the entire sole of his hoof.

In Norway for the small tour in Vestfold, Sasha looks at the photographs. He reads the article. They all do. Everyone is talking about it.

In the stables while Sasha waits for the draw to be announced, he thinks about calling Nicke.

(He doesn’t.)

In the temporary stall at the equestrian venue, Teresina is not still. The atmosphere of the competitions, even though it is a relatively small one, unsettles her. Keeping his voice low, he talks to her gently. At his voice, she swings her head around, her dark eyes narrowing her focus to him. Sasha’s always liked mares; there is just something special about them. There is a softness to Teresina; something gentle. She’s the kind of horse who makes dressage into an art. A little more experience and none of the chaos of the FEI tours will touch her.

“That’s my sweetpea,” he tells her in Russian, staying still as she comes close.

Terasina blinks slowly as he runs a hand down her neck.

Sasha isn’t sure when he will ride. The draw isn’t for another hour. Knowing his luck, he’ll end up with the poor time. All he can hope is that he’ll be able to help settle Teresina in the warm up arena.

There may be buyers watching.

Sasha spotted Michael talking to a group of agents the day they arrived. However given the timing, they could have been asking about the article. Sasha gets asked about it too. Thankfully only by Alex who calls while Sasha is double checking the tack boxes. They had been packed by Andre and William Nylander, and their work had been double checked by one of the senior grooms. But still. Sasha felt better doing his own checks.

Back when Alex first called Sasha while he was working in Miami, he said Nicke needed his help with Arlington. Alex says a lot of shit. Usually it’s Sasha that gets in trouble because of it.

Alex says a lot of shit now.

Sasha is only half listening.

Thanks to Eric, Sasha has a new sponsor. Thanks to Alex, Sasha has a potential patron. But Sasha isn’t sure if he wants them.

“Does anyone outside of Russia have this kind of money?” Alex asks. It’s a rhetorical question.

The patron is apparently a multi-millionaire property developer based in Moscow.

Alex says that.

“What is he really?”

Alex huffs.

But Sasha is in Norway. He can ask that.

“Someone who thinks you are very talented.”

Sasha bites back a laugh.

He’s riding on a small tour, in the Prix St. Georges section. This time a year ago he was bombing out of Grand Prix. When he left Montreal, it was without being paid and with Michael Therrien promising that he’d never ride again. The head coach of the famed Canadiens stable made the promise to Sasha’s face. He made good on it while Sasha was in America. There wasn’t a single person in the equestrian scene that didn’t learn of Sasha’s dismissal. Afterwards, the only work he could find was in a show jumping barn in Miami, and only that was because of the last of Sasha’s connections with Russian ex-pat equestrians.

He hadn’t been a particularly competitive jumper, but he had been good at getting a clear round.

Footage of clear rounds sold horses, so he supposes he was good at that too.

“Sema,” Alex says, his voice soft.

Sasha doesn’t want to listen.

He doesn’t want to do things Alex way either.

“At least meet them,” Alex says.

Sasha -

There is a disconnect, there always is. Passion can only take someone so far. Sasha knows that,

There are sharp edges inside Sasha. There always have been.

They don’t hurt when he is around horses. They hurt now, when Alex presses him.

“You don’t have to come back,” Alex tells him. “They aren’t expecting you to make Moscow your home training base.”

They would want that though. And they would want other things. Sasha knows that.

His heart was never worth much. But. He wants more. It’s foolish, maybe. But he does.

And it comes back to this; Alex is in Russia.

And Sasha?

Sasha has an anxious warmblood to tack up in Norway.

  

 

(In Valbo, Nicke waits for Alex to call him. But he doesn’t.)

  

 

Whatever Nicke expected, he didn’t quite expect Sasha appearing at the end of his next schooling session with Arli. He and Marcus got back from Norway early this morning. Marcus returned with a red ribbon he earnt in the Prix St George, and Sasha without Teresina. The mare is heading off to somewhere in the Czech Republic now; snapped up by a talented junior rider. Jakub something, Nicke thinks.

Sasha is riding Echo now, who allows Arli to reach out gently and sniff at his paddock mate.

Nicke is watching them rather than Sasha, and is taken off guard when Sasha speaks.

“It’s bad luck to change a horses name,” he comments.

It - Nicke didn’t expect that.

His breathing is laboured. He needs to cool down as much as Arli does. Nicke can feel that. He can feel the way Arli’s attention narrows to Sasha.

“He isn’t owned by a bank anymore,” Nicke tells Sasha. It’s more or less what the press was told.

Scotia Arlington is now Leonsis Arlington. It was made official by the FEI at the start of November last year.

“No,” Sasha agrees. “He’s owned by a billionaire.”

“And us,” Nicke says. The correction neat in his mouth. It isn’t a lie.

The one that got away; that's what Ted used to call Arli. 

Sasha hmms.

Arli doesn’t react. That, Nicke notices. Sasha too.

Nicke.

Nicke doesn’t give a shit about Sasha or his way with horses.

Echo steps close.

Nicke’s knee knocks against Sasha’s. But before Nicke can move Arli away, Sasha lays a hand on Arli’s shoulder. Alri is tense. Nicke is making him tense. Nicke knows this.

“It’s okay,” Sasha says, like that is something that matters in this conversation.

“It’s not,” Nicke tells him. 

The corner of Sasha’s mouth twitches into a shadow of a smile. But it's not a smile.

“No,” Sasha allows. “It wasn’t.”

  

 

(No. It wasn’t. It wasn’t okay, Nicke thinks later in the quiet of his apartment.

His sits. He digs his finger into his knees.  

His breath catches in his throat.)

  

 

Nicke knows exactly what he has to do. He knows what he has to achieve; the competitions to enter, the scores to make, the selection process.

He knows exactly where he is going and how he wants to get there.

He sees it so clearly.

He wants it so badly.

Arli - he is everything and Nicke will give him everything. Everything.

  

 

There is an elephant in the room.

There isn’t online. But when is there ever?

_Horse and Hound. Eurodressage. Dressage News. Chronicle of the Horse. Eventing Nation._

Nicke knows that they are saying.

There is press about the sale and then there is the story.

The story has been there, a beat behind the records and the accolades. It’s been there, developing, before the sale and way before Nicke first laid his eyes on Arlington and wanted.

Sasha didn’t know Adam Oates.

“After my time,” he says when Nicke catches him as Nicke is beginning to warm Arli up before their training session with his mother.

Nicke doesn’t know why he sought Sasha out.

What Sasha said, it isn’t a phrase of his own. He must have taken it from a Staal. It sounds like something they would offer. Meaningless and hollow yet true.

It was, though, after Sasha’s time.

It wasn’t after Nicke’s time.

So yes, there is a story and it includes Nicke.

“Did you see Arli at Lexington?” Nicke finds himself asking.

Sasha shrugs.

It isn’t an answer.

“I saw them at Hickstead,” he offers.

Then he saw them break 90.

Nicke saw them at Washington, he saw them in Ted’s stable. He saw Adam’s methods and he was taught them.

Sasha isn’t looking at him. He touches Arli; checking the girth. Arli’s breathing alters. Sasha’s doesn’t.

Nicke wants Sasha to say it. Wants someone to say it.

He has heard what people say, read what is being written.

“Semin,” he finds himself saying.

If anyone is going to say it, why not Sasha.

Sasha goes very still.

Flight, fight,

Freeze.

Bolt. That’s what Nicke would expect if Sasha was a horse.

“Say it,” Nicke tells Sasha..

He is standing by Arlington’s side. Not touching him. Not looking at him.

Nicke wants Sasha to look at him.

He wants Sasha to say it. For someone to say it.

Everyone knew how Adam trained his horses. Everyone saw how he rode them.

Fuck. The records Adam broke with Arlington still stand, untouchable and awful in their brilliance.

But Sasha -

“I see what you are doing,” Sasha says.

Nicke always forgets how fucking stubborn he is. How much of a fucking self destructive idiot Sasha is.

It wasn’t just the horses that Adam Oates trained while he was at Ted’s stable.

People remember the way Oates had Alex riding, the way Oates rewrote Alex’s very dna. Under him, Alex was unrecognisable. Nicke can't forget that. He isn’t sure he can forgive that.

It’s almost funny. Sasha was the last one standing in the end. Nicke finds himself saying that.

He is in his white breeches, but they are stained black inside his seat from the leather of his new saddle. He feels drunk, and he feels angry and he had a blue ribbon somewhere in the truck but not a score that came anywhere close to breaking any record.

Ted had liked Nicke and Alex; they came with proven pedigrees. They were headhunted and wooed with promises of patronage. Sasha was the gamble. He was the kid one of Ted’s agents had noticed. He didn’t come from anything or from anywhere. His parents didn’t ride. His parents probably hadn’t seen him ride for years. He was both easy and cheap to acquire.

“You get what you pay for,” Bruce had said that.

Bruce wasn’t in Washington either.

Nicke feels vaguely sick to his stomach.

Sasha is by Arli’s side. He is crouched down by Arli’s side, gently rubbing his legs.

He worked with racehorses. Nicke vaguely remembers someone telling him that. Nicke thinks Sasha owned one, once.

Arli’s is soft with Sasha. Soft like he is with no one else.

As Sasha works, Arli’s breathing goes steady and then goes slow and deep. There is nose all around them. Strange horses. People. Arli chews a little and lowers his head. Everything feels soft and quiet. Nicke feels his heart inside his cheats tremble.

Sasha isn’t looking at him. He rubs circles down Arli’s tendons, and then stands and fans his hands along Arlie’s back.

“Say it,” Nicke says.

“Say it,” he begs.

  

 

The word is Rollkur. The word is Hyperflexion. The words are Low, Deep, Round.

 

 

Nicke was there.

People write about him being mentored by Adam Oates. They write about his time at Ted’s stables as the head rider. They write about dynasty that was conceived in Washington.

But Nicke was there.

  

 

(Sasha was there too. Before it went bad. But no one really remembers that.)

 

 

_June 2011_

 

The first official event Nicke and Arli are entered into is a CDI3* at München-Riem, Germany. It’s a smaller stage than the last one Arli performed on. It’s smaller than the last one Nicke performed on. But still -

It is on the horizon.

München-Riem is the beginning of their campaign. Everyone feels it.  

It isn’t an Olympic qualifier, but they will come.

The trick about working backwards is not to forget to look forwards.

“You can’t school forever,” Nicke says when his father checks in with him.

It’s the truth, but it isn’t an answer.

It’s something his father always said.

His father nods.

The four of them are a team; Nicke, Kristoffer, and their parents. The five of them; Arli too.

Nicke and Arli are a team; they feel like one.

The event is in the distance until it isn’t.

In the weeks leading up to it, Nicke refines his routines, taking comfort in the early mornings, the warms ups, and the schooling sessions. He focuses on the moments in the arena. The power in Arli’s hind quarters when he transitions from one gait to another, the way he lightens in his front.

They learn the dressage test. The refine their freestyle routine. The music of it follows Nicke everywhere. He listens to it whenever he can. He visualises ever section, ever beat, and every movement that will accompany it.

In the sunshine, they work in the outside arena.

When they pause for a moment Nicke catches sight of Sasha amongst a group of riders hacking horses.

Out by the river that cuts through the east side of the property, Sasha is leading everyone through lateral work, leg yielding Ingo from side to side of the trail. As Ingo move forward and sideways at the same time, the bright white of the mare’s markings flash as her inside legs cross in front of his outside legs. It is not advanced work, but there is beauty seeing it done so well. Sasha keeps Ingo’s body straight; something that she struggled with a few months ago.

On a whim, Nicke applies his inside leg, and asks Arli for the same movement at the walk.

Arli gives it without hesitation, even offering a slight flexion at his poll and jaw away from the direction Nicke asks him to go.

It is a lovely thing.

It isn’t anything really. As Nicke knows, it isn’t advanced work, espcially not for Arli. Yet it is still lovely, Nicke thinks.

  

 

Ted calls.

He asks how Nicke feels.

He asks if he feels ready. If Arli is ready.

“Yes,” Nicke says.

Yes, he repeats.

It’s good practice, he thinks, to say yes.

He likes practice. Likes muscle memory.

  

 

Germany. Three star dressage.

It’s chosen with care.

Sasha is there with Echo. Marcus is there with Kartusch, a gelding that was originally bred to be Nicke’s. Nicke’s parents are there. His brother. Ted. They all are there.

It’s Nicke’s mother who hands him the reins. It’s Sasha who takes them afterwards.

It’s a blue ribbon. It’s a garland of roses and a rug with a logo on it. It’s Nicke in the trailer afterwards, ripping off his jacket, his hair stuck up awkwardly, his white breeches stained, his face red.

78.01

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

78.01

It’s Nicke stepping out of the trailer in clothes that his sponsors sent him to wear; not perfectly pressed anymore. It’s the anger he swallows in a gulp. It’s the distance he puts between himself and the horses.

The last time Ali scored below eighty, he was a young green inexperienced horse only new to Oates’ methods.

Nicke already sees the headlines.

  

 

Two days later they are home. Two days later and Nicke is in the stable, in the quiet spot between the unused washbay and the farriers corner when he overhears Kristoffer asking Sasha if he has any time to warm up Arli for Nicke today.

Nicke -

Nicke could walk away. He could.

But Nicke does not wanting to swallow back anything. Not then. Not now.

“He’s good at this,” Kristoffer says when Nicke storms out to the outdoor arena where they are warming up. “I thought he might be able to help.”

His voice is steady. Placating.

It’s practiced.

He knows Nicke too well; knows the shape of his anger and withstands it without flinching away.

Nicke makes himself inhales and makes himself exhale.

Nicke looks at the line of Sasha as he rides Ali, the beauty of his hands, the flow of his body.

He’s taller than Nicke. Mostly in the leg. For a while Nicke watches. He feels caught. Trapped. Inside his head, there is a countdown. Inside his head there is noise. He watches Arli’s ears twitch. Half listening to Sasha, half distracted but the movement around him. A few other horses are out. Kristoffer calls out corrections occasionally. Some praise.  

Nicke has half a dozen horses to school today, but the most important is Arli.

Sasha’s hands are quiet - they are always so quiet - and his eyes are soft. He’s a light rider. The way he holds his reins in more Italian than they should be after schooling too many TB’s in his youth. Even from a distance Nicke can see how loose his grip on the leather is, how lightly he holds the reins in his hands.

It took less than a fortnight for Sasha to end up riding the tricky horses in the stable and now he is riding Alri like he is one of them rather than the best dressage horse the world has ever seen. It’s so predictable that Nicke feels vaguely angry at himself. Sasha always ends up with the same kind of horses. And he always makes them look easy to ride.

It’s always this. Always the same story.

  

 

(And maybe it’s the same story when Nicke gets Sasha alone in the tack room. )

(Or maybe it isn’t.)

  

 

Sasha -

Afterwards Sasha -

He touches his bloodied mouth. Feels the cut on his bottom lip that Nicke gave him when the crashed into each other.

His heart races. He tries to catch his breath. He tries to straighten out his clothes. Vaguely he notices there is a polish oil stain on his breeches. He tries to straighten out the mess they made when they scrambled for leverage against the racks of bridles.

His hands shake.

Nicke’s hands. His mouth. The strength in his thighs and the blue of his eyes.

Sasha thinks -

Sasha is flushed and he isn’t sure what he feels.

  

 

The next FEI event is two weeks later in Wiesbaden, Germany. It’s a small tour four star. Sasha is riding three Prix St George horses; one of Kristoffer’s, two of Nicke’s. He sees Nicke between classes, but it’s Sergei Fedorov who catches him while he is icing Echo’s legs.

It’s been a while since Sasha was last in Miami, but it doesn’t feel like that. It never does with Sergei.

They end up in one of the VIP areas drinking coffee. Sergei isn’t here with a horse, but he has one. He usually does. He has an eye for finding them. This one is a chestnut gelding with beautiful confirmation. It’s young, but Sergei has a hunch about this one.

People pay a lot of money for his hunches.

“Come and see him,” Sergei says.

Sasha looks at the photos on Sergei’s iPhone, watches the short clip of the gelding being trotted out.

It’s been a while since Sergei had a hunch. Sasha says that instead of answering.

“My last hunch about about you,” Sergei says.

Sasha -

Sasha’s hands twitch, gripping reins he isn’t holding.

He hands Sergei’s iPhone back.

“You were riding that TB cross,” Sergei says. “And you didn’t say a single word.”

Sasha was afraid to speak. He was seventeen and he was riding someone elses horse, dressed in someone else’s show jacket and he was in the arena, in Sergei’s masterclass by the skin of his teeth. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He only filling in after the friend of a friend who owned the TB cross had fractured their wrist in a fall the day before the clinic.

And now he was here, by the skin of his teeth.

He doesn’t say that. He smiles, a little, because he can and he because he wants to.

“You should ride that horse yourself,” he tells Sergei.

He has missed seeing Sergei ride, missed his instinctive ease in the saddle. Missed him.

Sergei huffs out a laugh.

All it takes is one horse, the right horse. Everyone knows that. Why not this one?

“Tell me about your horses,” Sergei says.

Sasha does.

Sergei shakes his head.

They end up problem solving Echo’s issues accepting constant contact.

There comes a point in the conversation where there is a pause and Sasha knows why. There is always a pause. But there is no question. Anyone else would ask - everyone else has asked. Sergei doesn’t. He never does.

“Are you going to watch Arlington today?” Sasha asks.

The corner of Sergei’s mouth twitches.

“Is there anything to watch?”

Sasha gives him a look.

Sergei returns it.

“You should,” Sasha decides to say. “You should see what Nicke is doing.”

  

 

Nicke breaks 80 in the Grand Prix Special. It’s enough it’s put him in first place again, but not enough to silence of his critics. 0.9 points separate him from Olaf Kölzig in second.

But that’s not what makes him worth watching.

Sasha knows what Nicke is working on. He knows how Nicke rides better than most.

He saw him before Adam, and Sasha sees Nicke now.

 There are horses and there are horses.

There is riding and then there is this - what Nicke is doing, Sasha thinks.

Or he tries not to think.

  

 

(Nicke doesn’t want help, Sasha reminds himself.)

 

 

 

_July 2011_

 

A month later and they go back to Germany, this time to Aachen for a CDIO5*

Enough to bring Alex over.

Nicke says that.

Sasha doesn’t react.

Earlier this year Alex and Polyn cracked the top 25 of the FEI Dressage World Ranking. His mother was the last Russian Rider to achieve that feat.

Nicke remembers the mornings in D.C. he’d find Alex and Sasha tangled in each other. The sweetness in Alex, and the bite marks. The hickies. The laughter. The ease they always had with each other.

(Nicke isn’t easy).

There is a pointed question said with a design in mind. It was crafted over time and Nicke states it with purpose. He says it flippantly, and waits.

“Alex is in Russia,” Sasha answers, like it is an answer. Like it is some kind of truth rather than an avoidance.

Avoid the bit. Behind the bit. Above the bit. Behind the leg. In front of the leg. Evasions. Tactics and tells.

  

 

(No. Sasha is not excited to see his boyfriend. No. Sasha does not have a boyfriend.)

  

 

Alex is in Russia.

Sasha is in Sweden.

But then they are in Germany and Alex is there, catching Sasha when he should be hand grazing Arli.

The riding tights he wears show everything, and he shivers when Sasha lightly traces the line of his cock with his fingertips in the quiet of his truck. He smells of sweat and horse.

He’s been winning lately.

He is a force of nature too. A once in a generation talent.

Sasha kisses him until his jaw aches and with Alex back pressed against the locked door of his hundred thousand dollar truck, Sasha fucks him. It’s messy and good and achingly familiar.

Alex says a lot of things, running his mouth while Sasha is biting his jaw, neck, his shoulders.

Afterwards, Alex is loose limbed and he laughs when they try to put themselves together.

They end up kissing instead. Alex tangles his hands in Sasha’s hair, and keeps him close.

”I missed you,” Alex tells him.

He is so bright. So golden.

Sasha says that. He say it when he should be trying to catch his breath and it makes Alex grin with delight.

It is the truth. One of the few that Sasha knows. He gives it to Alex, offers it to him.

“You should see me riding Polyn,” he smirks.

  

 

The following day, Sasha does.

He is there for Alex’s dressage test, and for Nicke’s.

Nicke and Arli earn themselves another blue ribbon and an elaborate garland of flowers that look so colourful against Alri’s glossy black coat.

Yet although Nicke wins, Sasha hears the murmurs.

The following day he sees them in print.

 

 

(No, Sasha wasn't in Washington when Oates was. But he saw the damage Oates did and is still doing. He saw the ways Oates' techniques were praised and were embraced. Half the horses Sasha ended up riding in the States and Canada were either owned or had been ridden by people who idolised Oates. 

El-Den was one of them. 

He didn't have Arli's talent, nor his good fortunate.)

   

 

In the midst of everything, the Swedish team for the European Championships is announced.

Nicke gets the call a few days after he gets back home from Germany.

He has a month until the Championships in Rotterdam. CH-EU-D. The higher the stakes, the higher the potential points. So far Nicke is on track for London, but it’s a fragile state. Every weekend is another opportunity - the rankings are not static. Not this close to the Olympic selections.

He’s in the top ten of the FEI rankings. Currently he’s the highest ranked Swede. He is right on track.

He just has to keep focused.

 

 

_August 2011_

 

In Rotterdam, Nicke ends up hooking up with Alex in the bathrooms while they are meant to be attending a formal dinner. It’s utterly predictable.

They are both in black tie attire, and Nicke is so easy for Alex. They should both know better. The stakes are so much higher now than they were were back when they were poaching ribbons in American dressage arenas.  

  

 

There are gold medals in Rotterdam, but not for either Nicke or Alex.

“Fucking Czech,” Alex says afterwards. “Fucking English.”

Jaromir Jagr and Carl Hester. First and second.

What makes it worse is the genuinely kind comments the two greats say about Nicke and Arlington, like Nicke hasn’t failed Alri once again. This time last year Adam Oates and Arli were regularly scoring over 90. They were shaking the foundations of the dressage world. They were making history.

What the fuck is Nicke doing now?

It’s not like he doesn’t know the people are saying he’s ruining Arli.

It’s not like people haven’t directly asked him why he isn’t riding Arli the way Oates taught him too.

He was after all, one of Oates’ most promising students.

“Fuck Oates,” Alex says.

Nicke shakes his head.

“No,” Alex says, sounding pained. “Fuck him.”

“Everyone says - “

“I know. You know. Not them,” Alex tells Nicke. “We were there. We saw.”

Nicke -

  

 

They end up in bed together, again.

Nicke aches for him. Aches for Washington, aches for what they had. Aches for who they once were, for who Nicke once was.

The sex they have isn’t particularly good. Alex is careless, and Nicke is reckless. It’s not a good mix. It’s stupid really. But it’s not like either of them is riding tomorrow.

In the morning Nicke wakes up hungover and sprawled over Alex’s naked body.

There are half a dozen missed calls on his mobile and he’s running late. When he calls Kristoffer in the bathroom, he is told not to bother coming to the stables where he should be supervising the travel preparations.

“Sasha is taking care of Arli,” Kristoffer says.

His voice is gentle.

  

 

(Back when Alex first called to ask Nicke to give Sasha a job he said that Sasha would be able to help.)

  

 

(Nicke doesn’t want any help).

  

 

Almost exactly a year ago, Nicke test rode Arli.

Ted, his parents, the press - they all consider that test ride as Nicke’s first ride of Arli. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

 

 

_September 2011_

 

In the aftermath of the European Championship, Nicke takes Arli home. On the flight, he is seated with Ted who takes the opportunity to dissect Nicke’s performance in detail. He bought very good seats. He had an excellent view. Nicke nods. He swallows. His throat feels dry. There are bruises on his hips, his back, his neck. There are bite marks on his thighs.

He feels hollow.

His phone vibrates with texts. He does not look. That would be rude. Instead he nods, and listens to Ted.

When he gets home, Kristoffer sends him to bed.

“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll look after Arli.”

That doesn’t feel right, but he can’t find the strength to fight the gentle guiding hand that his other lays on his shoulder.

She looks worn too.

“I’ll be fine,” she promises. “And so will you.”

Nicke doesn’t feel like he will be.

It isn’t about the blue ribbons. George Morris said that. He is right. He is.

But for the first time there is a shadow of doubt.

London 2012, that is the goal. That is what Nicke is both working towards and working backwards from.

“Hickstead,” his father says, when he comes to check on Nicke in the morning.

And yes.

Nicke nods.

Hickstead. London.

Nicke needs to look ahead. It is the only thing he can do.

  

 

In the aftermath of Rotterdam, Sasha is careful.

Careful of himself, careful with the horses. They notice everything, feel everything.

And Sasha watches.  

Nicke gives Arli some time to rest. He needs it. Sasha thinks Nicke thinks needs it to, but he fills every hour of his day that he can. Mostly with work that is not his to do. Michael roster him horses to school; even though Nicke is a beautiful rider, Sasha doesn’t know how much good Nicke does with them. His head isn’t quite with them, nor his heart.

Sasha thinks of Arli in Washington; the gangly young horse that Adam’s had shipped there when Ted hired him as the head rider of his stable. For a time, he and Nicke were the only two swedes in the stable, just like Sasha and Alex’s were the only Russians.

Sasha was on the other side of the country when they arrived. Sasha was -   

Alex and Nicke came to Ted with a proven pedigree.

Sasha was the gamble. Sasha was the diamond in the rough.

He didn’t come from an equestrian family. He didn’t come from anything really. A small town. An after school job at a local riding school. He got his start tuning up other people’s horses; bring them back into work after long winters, retraining ex-racehorses and breaking young horses into saddle. In the spring and summer he competed other people’s horse - he is doing the same now.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Sasha sometimes feels so tired. He’s spent his life riding other people’s horses. Maybe he’s tired of riding. Tired of coaching brilliance from horses that maybe just should be left alone. He’s spent his life loving what didn’t belong to him, and being loved by horses that have no reason to love him after the way they have been treated by other humans.

He touches Arlington’s shoulder when he goes to check on Bols and Echo first thing in the morning. His rug is askew. It’s an easy fix. Nothing more. Only Arlington steps into Sasha’s space rather than out of it.

Sasha -

Arli steps into Sasha’s space and for a moment, he rests his muzzle against Sasha’s cheek. It’s velvety soft and so warm. Against Sasha’s ear, Arli exhales.

Inside Sasha’s chest, his heart beats. 

He breathes. Arlington breathes with him.

The moment stretches.

He closes his eyes.

He feels so humbled.

Arli moves away. The moment is over.

Sasha opens his eyes.

His heart beats. It beats and it beats. He holds onto that.

He looks at Arli and Arli looks back at him. His eyes dark and soft, his presence radiating something so gentle.

Sasha feels his heart breaking. He feels his heart beating. 

He feels very alive.

  

 

There is no reason for Arli to open himself to Sasha, to Nicke, to anyone. No reason for him to give any of them a second of thought or care or love.

But yet he has.  

 

 

It is almost a week before Sasha catches sight of Arli being tacked up for Nicke.

Sasha considers offering to warm Arli up, or to ride a horse out with Nicke and Arli to keep them company. In the end he watches.

Dressage is both a sport and an art. It is the best of both. And Arli is breathtaking.

The most complex movements are easy for him. He is so willing, so clever, and so present with Nicke.

Nicke is such a beautiful rider.

He demands excellence in himself and has a way of bringing out the best in every horse he rides. Seeing him ride Arli, is seeing a dance. Sasha remembers Sergei and his mentor, the great Elena Petuschkova, talking about that, about how dressage should be a ballet.

Sasha remembers seeing Arli at Hickstead. He remembers seeing him break the unimaginable score of 90 at the 2009 FEI European Jumping and Dressage Championships in Windsor.

Oates achieved great things with Arli. No one can deny that, not even Sasha.

Great, but not beautiful. Not to Sasha’s eyes.

What Nicke is trying to do, what he is doing, humbles Sasha. Arli is a world champion. Arli is the best dressage horse that the world has ever seen. And Nicke is retraining him. Nicke is asking Arli for something else. Something that they are finding together.

  

 

(In the end it is Kristoffer who sits down with Nicke.

“What if you don’t get selected?” he asks.

“What if you are, but you don’t win?” he asks.

Nicke opens his mouth and closes it.

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Kristoffer looks at him. “Liar.”)

  

 

(It is Nicke who ends up going to Sasha, knocking on the door of his cottage.

They sit outside and Nicke sips at the glass of white wine Sasha gives him.

“What if I know a way that I could almost certainly win gold?” Nicke asks him.

Sasha is quiet for a long time.

“Would it matter how I did it?” Nicke asks.

Out beyond them are horses that Nicke’s family has spent generations breeding, generations devoting their lives too, generations loving.

Sasha looks at Nicke; his eyes soft and his expression open.

“Yes, it matters.”

”To who?” Nicke finds himself asking. Begging.

“To Arli. To you.”)

  

 

(Yes, it always matters. Yes, it mattered. If not to Adam Oates, then just to Nicke and Sasha. And to Arli.

Arli who is brilliant and sweet and who has started to nicker when he sees Nicke and who looks ridiculous when he scratches behind his ears with one of his hind hooves. Like he is embarrassed to be caught doing something so undignified.

Nicke loves him. He loves Arli fiercely and unconditionally.

And Sasha knows that, because he knows Nicke.  

And maybe that is where they begin. Or maybe that is just where they find themselves until Sasha takes Nicke’s wine glass from his hands and kisses him in the golden evening light).

 

 

_October 2011_

 

For all the build up, Hickstead sweeps in quietly. Sasha finds himself there, in England, as if it were any other weekend. Only of course it isn’t. He sees Eric and Whale in the stables, and there is word that Alex and the Ovechkin team will arrive soon. There are mix ups in the temporary stables. The Canadian’s were told to settle their horses in the wrong stalls. It's what passes for a scandal for them. Sasha catches sight of Mario Lemieux and Wayne Gretzky in the midst of talks with the stable managers while an awkward hazel eyed groom holds a dark bay horse a few yards behind them.

Sasha sees Sergei too, and Elena. They have the horse; the same one that Sergei showed Sasha photos of before. In person, Sasha notes the elegance of its long straight legs and a spark of something stubborn in his eyes.

“See,” Sergei says.

Sasha sees.

He opinion remains the same.

“Mine as well,” Sergei tells him.

He is smiling. He does not push.

The following day Sasha sits with Alex while they are watching the trot up.

Someone else is handling Polyn.

“Kuzya,” Alex offers.

He looks confident and totally at ease.

For a moment Sasha looks at him, and his heart is so full.

Alex is the greatest rider Russia has had since the fall of the Soviet Union and the collapse of the state sponsored studs. He is the face of the Russian Equestrian Federation; blessed by the greats of the 1970s and 1980s.

Elena Petukhova, Sergei Filatov, and Ivan Kizimov. Sergei Fedorov, Pavel Bure, Alexander Mogilny - and his own mother all sing his praises.

Every word of it he deserves. Sasha knows that more than most.

“We aren’t in Russia,” Alex says. He is smiling.

Sasha feels the corner of his mouth twitch.

In this moment, he see something else when he looks at Alex.

“I’ll have to check with Nicke,” Sasha says.

Alex’s eyes light up with glee.

  

 

(Sasha can’t have Alex. He can’t and neither can Nicke, because Alex wants Russia. And in Russia, Sasha can’t be with him.

But they can have this.

They can have Alex’s mouth curving into a smile and his hands clever and sure when he touches Sasha.

They can have Nicke, flushed, prickly, and easy for both of them).

  

 

In the moments before Nicke mounts Arli to warm him up for his GP freestyle test, Sasha stands with Arli and feels him breath in time with him.

There is softness to him. It’s hidden deep, yet he shares it. His breathing is even, and his eyes blink slowly. 

They are in the side of the backstage, just near the warm up arena, waiting for Nicke.

Arli isn’t looking for him, but his ears twitch when he hears Nicke’s voice.

There isn’t anger in him. Sasha has seen horses that should be angry. But they never are. And if his heart hurts, well, it’s hurt before and he’s still standing. Still riding.

He doesn’t know if he will take up Sergei’s offer.

Maybe he should.

It would probably be smart.

But when has Sasha ever done what was smart?

  

 

There are blue ribbons. There are garlands. There are records made and broken.

There are offers made, formally. With paperwork and sponsorship and a wage that Sasha can live on.

“Think about it,” Sergei says, when he brings it to Sasha.

  

 

In the aftermath of Nicke’s and Arli’s freestyle ride there is news that breaks, and articles that get written in a rush. Photographs taken and published within the hour. Prize money awarded and points allocated by the conclusions of the night.

Nicke moves up another spot on the official FEI rankings.

“Number 6,” Sasha comments.

Nicke thinks about that; thinks about how being in the top ten was his goal to achieve in the lead up to the selection of the Swedish team.

He is only a few points off making the top five. He might even do it within the next month or so.

He hopes Sasha will still be here to see it.  

“Stay,” Nicke wants to ask Sasha when the media whirlwind is over and they are alone; stay he wants to tell Sasha when Sasha tells him about the offer.

Stay right here, with him and with Arli.

There are things Nicke can ask for, and things that he can’t.

He isn’t sure what kind this is.

He laces his fingers through Sasha and squeezes his hand once. Twice.

Nicke takes a breath and for a moment he stays with Sasha; right there in the moment; right there beside him, holding his hand.

 

 

_November 2011_

 

The call from the selection committee of the Swedish Equestrian Federation comes just before lunch. Afterwards, Nicke finds himself out on the trails through the forest. In the quiet, in the calm of the thick woods, he tries to let the call settle over him.

Arli is striding out - he knows.

Horses are always the first to know.

And Arli is the most brilliant horse. Of course he knows.

Up ahead Sasha is riding with William and Marcus. Judging by the way they each reach for their watches to press a button, they are in the middle of a gallop set. Or William and Marcas are. Sasha? It’s meant to be his day off. Nicke doesn’t know why he is isn’t in bed where Nicke left him. He says as much when they end up riding in a pair behind William and Marcus. Sasha shrugs. There is a hint of a smile to his expression but nothing more.

“They called,” Nicke says.

His heart feels very full.

He looks out through Arli’s black ears and out ahead down the trail.

“We’re going to London.”

Sasha -

He lets out a cry and suddenly Nicke is pulled half out of his saddle as Sasha embraces him. It’s spontaneous; a messy embrace and their horse collide together. Nicke’s inside knee knocks against Sasha’s and he lets go of the reins.

“Nicke,” Sasha says, his voice thick with emotion.

Laughing, Nicke feels giddy.

“We’re going to the Olympics,” he says, full of joy.

“You’re going to the Olympics,” Sasha says.

And Nicke is. He and Arli are going to London. They’re part of the Swedish Equestrian team. They are going to the games.

 

 

 

 

_From the very beginning I never thought about being a top level sportswoman. I just thought about the happiness of riding a horse. The happiness of finding a common language with an animal. Of course I tried to do my best all the time but not to place highly, but just because if you are doing anything then you must do your best._

Elena Petuschkova, Olympian, Soviet National and World Dressage Champion.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find/follow me on [tumblr](http://www.pr-scatterbrain.tumblr.com) if you want <3


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